


blessed are the merciful

by demonblues



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Memory Loss, POV Alternating, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Time Magic, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28842318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonblues/pseuds/demonblues
Summary: Arthur Morgan always had a tendency to cross paths with peculiar people. The most unusual one by far, he met on May 23rd, 1899.And she was one stranger he will never forget.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 20





	blessed are the merciful

**Author's Note:**

> adding my amateur writing to the party of people who think Arthur Morgan deserved a better ending. :)  
> i've been working on this since November for nano but never got around to finishing it off. evasive muses, i blame them.  
> some slight changes to canon, though i tried to follow the storyline as much as possible. with surprises here and there. so, spoilers for the whole game!
> 
> rating is for language, violence, and the highly likely probability of mediocrely written future sexual content.

Part of an entry in Arthur Morgan’s journal, dated May 23rd, 1899:

_Found a woman out in the wilderness near our little hideout in the mountains. Unconscious. Naked and bruised all over. I couldn’t just leave her there, of course. So I took her back to camp and Dutch ain’t too happy about it. Says we have too much to deal with already, and truthfully, he ain’t wrong._

_Wonder how she ended up out there like that?_

( A detailed sketch of a woman in the snow; a symbol carved in stone; a short tree broken in half, follows. )

-

Heavy snowfall fell all around her, painting the world a delicate white. Though her vision was immensely blurry, she could see hazy outlines of tall evergreen trees. Moonlight shimmered on the ice frozen to their leaves, twinkling in the darkness. Close by she could hear a horse, the _clop, clop,_ of its hooves on the ground.

She could hardly breathe, lungs sore. Her entire body felt numb, too numb to even twitch her fingers or curl her toes. All she could feel was the icy wind that lashed at her face, along with leather and metal pressed uncomfortably against her side. She was naked but a thin blanket had been mercifully swathed around her.

Telling by the unsteady sway of her body, she was being carried. Whoever held her, also held onto the reigns of the horse, guiding it through the snowstorm. The arms under her felt strong, firm – who was it?

Her dry lips parted, but no words came out.

_I can’t remember -_

_What happened to me?_

-

Arthur Morgan had never considered himself to be an especially caring or compassionate man. Yet as he looked down at the woman in his arms, laying lifelessly limp, an ache knotted itself in his heart. He never did like to see women hurt. Couldn’t stand watching them cry, either. A far different viewpoint from the other men in his company.

He heard her mumble incoherently as he carried her toward the cabin he knew Dutch was in. Blood dribbled from her mouth and out from her nose. He wanted to help her, but what could be causing so much internal blood loss?

The door to the cabin creaked open when he pressed his shoulder to it.

Dutch was inside, standing close to a dimly lit hearth with a cigar in one hand. When Arthur closed the door behind him, Dutch turned and briefly smiled – until he saw the woman in Arthur’s arms.

“Arthur. Who the Hell is that?”

“No clue. I found ‘er out there. Just like this. No clothes. No guns. All by herself.”

“And you thought just bringing her here was a good idea? She could be an O’Driscoll whore! Have you lost your damn mind? Do you not understand the situation we are in at the moment? We almost got shot up earlier at that Adler ranch, and now you - ”

“Dutch. I really don’t think - ”

The door scraped open once again and Hosea came in, rubbing his gloved hands together, teeth chattering. “Arthur! You’re back! How … What’s going on?”

Micah entered soon after Hosea and kicked the door shut. Then spat. “Let me guess: little Arthur questioning daddy’s orders again? You’d do best to – _oooooh_. Who’s that you got there?”

Arthur flinched away from Micah’s outstretched hand. “Don’t touch ‘er, Micah.”

“Dutch.” Hosea stated blankly. “What’s going on?”

“Good Lord!” Dutch exclaimed as he sat down on a chair near the small hearthfire. “Would you all give me a minute to think? Arthur brought this – this woman here and - ”

“Really, Arthur?” Micah cut in. “We got fuckin’ O’Driscolls _alllll_ around us, and you decide to bring one of their whores here?”

“She ain’t no whore. Ain’t no O’Driscoll either.” Arthur shouted. Then leveled his voice. “Least … I don’t think so. Didn’t find anyone else around her, not within miles. She wasn’t near the Adler house. She was just off in Goddamn nowhere about to freeze to death.”

“And of course you just had to play the hero, huh?” Micah sneered. “Big shadow, _tiiiiny_ tree … ”

“Micah. Enough.” Dutch scolded sternly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Arthur. Go put her back where you found her. Doesn’t matter if she’s an O’Driscoll; a whore; _whatever,_ she can’t stay here. We don’t have enough supplies for another. And last thing we need is a pack of O’Driscolls who are possibly lookin’ for their lost … whatever she is.”

Micah spat. Again. “We ‘specially don’t need a useless woman. We got enough of ‘em already … ”

Hosea moved to stand beside Arthur. “Dutch. Come on. We can’t just toss her back out into the cold.”

“Even if I wanted to let her stay, I can’t.” Dutch declared. “Ignoring the fact that she was likely with the O’Driscolls, seeing as she has no other reason to be out there, she’s a liability. We barely have enough food to get by as it is now.”

“I’ll go huntin’.” Arthur stated. “I’ll catch somethin’ and - ”

“ _Arthur.”_ Dutch tossed his burnt-out cigar into the fire, then clasped his hands together, knuckles white. “No. Go leave her somewhere far from our camp.”

Hosea had a nasty glare on his face. “She’ll die out there, Dutch.”

“Let me take her.” Micah suggested, sneering. “I’ll make sure she don’t come nowhere near our camp.”

“I’d leave her with the wolves before I ever left her with you, Micah.” Arthur said darkly, pressure rising in his chest. Then he looked back down at Dutch. “Just let her stay with us until we’re out of this storm. Then we can drop her off at the first town we come across.”

Dutch sighed. “Arthur - ”

“Please.” Hosea pled. “Have some mercy, Dutch. She needs our help.”

Dutch’s dark brows furrowed. “God. Fine _._ But she’s gone at the first town we get to.”

“Great. Just what we needed. Another mouth to feed.” Micah muttered. “Hope you don’t regret this, Dutch.”

“I doubt she’ll live through the night.” Dutch waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Most likely won’t have to worry about feedin’ her.”

“Thank you.” Arthur whispered to Hosea.

Hosea smiled, patting Arthur on the shoulder. “Go leave her with the other women. They’ll take care of her. And try to get some rest. You look like you need it.”

He left the cabin as quickly as possible, ignoring Micah’s snide comments as he did. He still didn’t understand what Dutch saw in that bastard, a venomous snake would be better company. But it wasn’t his place to question. Or doubt. Dutch always knew what he was doing, always had his reasons.

When Arthur went into the cabin where the women and Jack were stuffed into, he found only Abigail still awake. He tried to be as quiet as he could, avoiding the sleeping figures on the floor as he moved over to where Abigail sat in a corner near her son Jack. There were a few small candles lit near her, giving a warm light to her ruddy cheeks.

“Arthur.” Abigail said softly, petting Jack’s hair as he slept fitfully. She narrowed her gaze at the woman in Arthur’s arms. “Who’s that?”

Arthur cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “Don’t know. Found her out in the snow. But she needs some help. She’s bleedin’ and coughin’ and – can you help her?”

“She don’t look like she’s gonna make it to the mornin’, Arthur.”

“Please, Abigail? It’d be cruel if we did nothin’. Wouldn’t it?”

Abigail sighed. “You and your Goddamn bleedin’ heart. Fine. Set her down and I’ll have a look at her.”

He gently set the stranger down on the floor, her body still covered in his blanket. In that moment, he noticed a few details that had been hidden in the darkness of night before, but were now revealed in candlelight. Cuts and bruises, all over her face and body, as if she had tumbled down the mountain for miles and miles. Her skin, turned a greyish-blue from the cold. Then lastly, her bloodshot eyes that were locked onto him.

Arthur Morgan did not consider himself a caring or compassionate man, but even the Devil would have felt pity for her.

He left the rickety cabin as silently as he had entered it, biting his tongue, wishing he knew how to pray.

-

The difference between reality and dreams blurred over time.

She was on a hard, cold floor, and an unfamiliar woman was patting her forehead with a wet cloth. Then she was soaring clear skies as a bird, perhaps a raven, watching over a deer as it drank from a tiny pond in a lush forest.

And then again, she’d find herself on that hard, cold floor.

What finally jolted her to full awareness was a sharp, distinct pain in her lungs. She sat up, quickly, shoving the woman who had been patting her face with a wet cloth aside. Covering her mouth with one hand, she coughed throatily, hot blood splattering her palm. The soreness in her chest spread to the rest of her body, as the cloudiness of sleep disappeared.

“Here. Have some water.”

The stranger cupped water in their hands from a bucket next to them, then held out their water-filled hands. The dirty opacity of the water didn’t make her hesitate as it should have. She bent her head down and drank greedily from their hands.

“Easy. Easy. Drink slower or you’ll choke on it.”

She swished the last of the water around in her mouth, then unwillingly coughed it onto the dress she now had on. It was a simple garment, easy to slip on and off, but a little too loose on her. She used the sleeves of it to wipe the bloodied water from her mouth, throat still achingly dry and sore. The stranger reached out for her, but she flinched and began to crawl towards a door.

_What happened to me?_

_Where am I?_

She reached the door and pried it open with stiff fingers, then crawled onto a snow-covered porch. Harsh wind struck her face, her hair. Around her was what looked to be an abandoned town, filled with derelict cabins and blanketed in untouched white. Her mind reeled as she took in her surroundings, her situation, and an uneasy sense of uncertainty that grew with each second.

The stranger came out onto the porch and shut the door, hands on their hips. “Where the Hell you think you’re goin’?”

“Where – Where am I … “

“You need to get back inside.”

The stranger reached for her again, but she twisted herself out of their grasp. “Who … are you?”

“Abigail.”

“Abigail … ” She let the name fall from her lips, hoping to remember it, hoping she knew it. But instead there was more confusion, more questions. “I don’t know you, do I?”

“Now you do.” Abigail said bluntly, frowning. “You have a name?”

“N – Not one I can remember.”

“You hit your head or somethin’?”

She tried to remember, tried to recall anything before that timely rescue – but there was nothing. It was as if she had just begun to exist a few hours ago. Wondering if the loss of memory was in fact due to a head injury, she lifted one hand and felt her skull for any signs of damage. There were some sensitive spots, as well as a pulsing in her skull.

And then she felt a clot of blood matted in her hair, covering a scabbed wound that stung at her touch.

"It seems I did.”

“Well. You need a name.” Abigail knelt down with her hands clasped together. “Any name, really. At least until you remember your actual one. We need to call you by somethin’.”

“Am I just supposed to think of a random one?”

“Any one you like. There are lots of pretty ones. Like … um … hmm … ”

There was a lengthy silence as they both pondered a fake name for her to use. Dozens flittered in and out of her thoughts, never settling or sticking or sounding pretty enough. It was quite difficult to think of one. Clearly, Abigail didn’t have an idea for a name either. A sudden burst of inspiration came to her after some time, provoking her to say:

“How about Guinevere?”

“That’s an … interesting pick. What made you think of it?”

She didn’t know. Truly. It came from nowhere, from nothing.

But for some reason she felt it was right.

_Maybe it’s my actual name?_

“I’m not sure. Just came to me. What, do you not think it’s pretty?”

“It’s a bit _different_ , is all. You’ll stick out with a name like that. Can we shorten it to Gwen?”

“Mhm. Sure.”

“Gwen it is then.” Abigail smiled faintly at the newly-dubbed _Guinevere,_ standing and brushing snow off of her skirt. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get back inside. It’s freezin’ out here.”

“Alright.” Guinevere exhaled as she stood unsteadily, leaning on Abigail. “And thanks. For helping me. And for the clothes. Sorry if I seemed hostile. I just felt … ”

“Scared? It’s no problem. You ain’t the first terrified woman we took in tonight. And well, I owe Arthur a lot. Seems only fair I help him out when he asks.”

“And Arthur is … ?”

“The man who saved you. Carried you in on foot from the woods. He’s the one who asked me to take care of you.” Abigail had a fondness in her tone, what sounded like admiration. “He – He’s real good at savin’ people. Even if he don’t like to admit it. He’s a good man. You should thank him proper when you get the chance. You’d have likely been dead by now if not for him.”

Guinevere tried not to wince as pain throbbed in her chest. “So, you’re all a … family?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“And what are you all doing in the mountains?”

“Well. We - ” Abigail’s face wrinkled in what seemed to be concern as she eased Guinevere onto a bedroll. Abigail spun around frantically, wide-eyed stare sweeping the still bodies laid about the cabin. “Jack? Jack? Jack, where are you? Jack - ”

“I’m here, ma!” A child, presumably Jack, climbed down a ladder from a loft with holes in the floor. “Was just looking around … ”

Abigail rushed over to Jack and lifted him into her arms. “You know I don’t like it when you run off like that.”

Jack blinked his big, innocent eyes. “Sorry ma.”

Guinevere knew it wasn’t her place to ask questions, but she had quite a few _._ What kind of 'family' was this? Why _were_ they stuck in a blizzard, with no supplies or food? Who were all the women, lying around the cabin? Who was this 'Arthur,' and why did he save her? How did he find her? Why was she in these mountains? What was she doing? What happened to her? Where had all of her memories gone? Would she ever remember who she actually is?

And _why_ did everyone except her have a weird accent?

She laid down on that thin bedroll, pondering her thoughts. The blanket that had been giving her some dignity before was now bunched beneath her head, being used as a makeshift pillow. It smelt of cigarette smoke and coffee.

Unable to fall asleep, she saw hazy visions of wolves and blood. Reality was only amplified by the pounding in her skull, and the howling wind outside.

-

He had odd dreams of wolves, packs of them, their jaws slathered in blood.

The sun hadn’t risen yet when he finally decided to get up, too fitful to sleep. He rubbed the aches in his neck and shoulders as he grabbed his guns and his satchel, then left his room. Outside, Charles stood on watch in the center of the deserted town, near a campfire that burned brightly in the darkness.

“Charles.” Arthur mumbled as he kneeled close to the warmth of the fire. “Been on watch all night?”

“No. Just started.” Charles yawned, stretching. “Did you not sleep well?”

“That easy to tell, huh?”

“You sound a bit … tired, is all.”

Arthur was silent for a time as he remembered the wolves. The blood. “Yeah. A bit tired. Couldn’t rest.”

“Hm.” Charles hummed, then added thoughtfully, “no one really can, I’m sure. Not in this situation.”

“This storm will pass. An’ then … “

And then what?

Did Dutch truly have a plan? Or was it all bluster?

“So.” Charles sighed, cutting through the tense silence. “You brought in a woman last night?”

Arthur huffed. “You heard ‘bout that?”

“Hard not to. Micah wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“Yeah. Well. Don’t pay him no mind. He’s a Goddamn fool.”

Charles let out a weak laugh. “Oh, I know he is. I think you did the right thing, though, Arthur. Really. You probably saved her life. It doesn’t matter who she could possibly be.”

Arthur shook his head. “Don’t think I got to her in time, honestly. It ain’t likely she made it through the night.”

“She was wounded?”

“Yeah. Coughin’ up blood. Bruised all over. Looked like she had rolled down the whole mountain and smacked into the earth. Who knows how long she had been layin’ in the snow for.”

Charles bent down, grabbed a log from a pile nearby, then tossed it into the fire. “You should go check on her.”

Arthur watched as the flames rose higher, burning hotter. “I thought ‘bout it. Not keen on seein’ another dead body, though.”

“I understand.”

But he did want to see her. He wanted to know if she survived or not. And if she did – he wanted to know who she is; what was she doing out in the wilderness, unconscious? He had trekked an hour or two through the snowfall, carrying her, and hadn’t seen or heard anyone else during the journey.

“Hey, Arthur.” Charles said, nudging Arthur. “Is that … her?”

Arthur looked up, a glare over his vision from the firelight. “What the Hell? She shouldn’t be - ”

_Alive._

Yet there she was: limping out of the cabin, pale as death. It seemed Abigail had given her an old dress to wear, along with a pair of boots and a scarf. Clutching her abdomen, she stumbled out into the snow and vomited. She spat a few times, wiping spit and blood from her chin.

Charles smiled, crossing his arms. “Quite the woman. Looks like she survived the night.”

“I don’t believe it.” Arthur stood slowly, in shock. He began to walk over to her, unaware of what he was doing. “How - ?”

_\- is she still alive?_

“Ah. Hello.” She squinted up at him, covering her mouth with her arm. Snowflakes landed on her flushed cheeks and in her messy hair, twinkling in the light of dawn. He hadn’t realized he had wandered over to her until her voice broke the stupor he was in. “You wouldn’t happen to be Arthur, would you?”

“I do happen to be Arthur, actually.” He stated, clearing his throat. “You heard about me?”

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, which was soaked with blood. “Abigail told me about you, in fact. And I was told to thank you, so: thank you, Arthur, for saving my life. And I truly hate to do this but I need to ask you to do something else for me … ”

He was about to reply, when Charles intervened. “You still look very unwell, miss. You should get back inside and rest.”

“ _Rest?_ As if I could. It is incredibly cold and the floor is not exactly a comfortable surface to lay on. No. You don’t understand. I need to figure out - ”

“C’mon now. Get back inside.” Arthur cut her off, reaching out to grab her arm. “You’ll freeze to death out here - ”

The instant he touched her, held onto her, the world around him changed.

It was as if time itself had froze.

Snowfall hung in the air, no longer blowing wildly in the wind – because the wind was _gone._ The trees were still, their branches and leaves motionless. He heard nothing, felt nothing. But he could still move. He was still aware. And so was she.

She blinked, jaw slightly slack. “What the - ?”

He released her arm in a panic, unsure of what was happening –

\- and time flowed normally again.

Charles gripped Arthur’s shoulder, roughly. “Arthur? You alright?”

“Did – Did you see that?” Arthur was breathless, the air stolen from his lungs somehow. “What just happened?”

“What? What’re you talking about?”

The woman was glaring down, fists clenched at her sides. It was clear she didn’t want to acknowledge _whatever_ just happened. He didn’t want to force the subject. Especially if Charles didn’t see it.

_I know she saw it._

_Whatever that was …_

Suddenly, Abigail rushed out of the cabin and stormed over. “Arthur! I need to talk to you! I need you to – oh. I see you’ve met Gwen.”

“ _Guinevere,_ officially. For now.” Gwen interjected. “Until I remember my actual name, at least.”

“You don’t remember your name?” Charles asked.

“She don’t remember nothin’. Knocked her head good somehow. But Arthur, I need you to do a favor for me. Please.” Abigail grabbed Arthur’s hands, clutching them tightly in hers. “Please, go out and find my idiot John. He’s been gone for a long time now.”

Arthur sighed. “He just went out scoutin’, Abigail. He’ll be back soon.”

“I’m worried. Jack misses him too! Please, please, Arthur? I know you could track him down.”

“I could. Sure. But - ”

“Arthur will go. And I’ll go with him.” Guinevere chimed in. “We can get two things done at once. I need you to take me back to wherever it was you found me.”

Arthur scoffed. “You outta your Goddamn mind? You can barely walk. And you’re pukin’ all over the place.”

“I _need_ to - ” Guinevere coughed, a frown wrinkling her face. “Please, just take me back there. We can go while we’re out looking for this … uh … John, was it?”

“Please, Arthur?” Abigail begged. “I’m real worried about him.”

“Just do it.” Charles murmured. “Take someone else with you. I think I saw Javier up.”

“Fine. Fine! I’ll go look for ‘im. Christ.” Arthur relented. “But John’s a big boy, Abigail. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s a fool but he can take care of himself. Mostly.”

Abigail kissed Arthur’s hands. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

Guinevere focused her stare on Arthur, eyes alight with determination. “And you’ll be taking me along, yes?”

The sun had risen, shining a misty orange glow over the horizon.

He could see her more clearly now.

He looked over the bloodstained cloth coiled around her head, covering wounds hidden beneath her tangled hair. He looked over her hands, her dry, brittle skin. He looked over her clothes; a frayed dress too big for her, old boots with holes in them, and a thin scarf around her neck that didn’t protect her much from the weather. He looked over all of her, how injured and battered and sick she was.

And he knew she must be absolutely crazy, to think she’d survive a _moment_ out there in her condition.

“No. I sure won’t be.” Arthur answered bluntly. “ _Guinevere.”_

Then he turned around to go and find Javier, pulling a cigarette out of his satchel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know, such an attractive entrance for our lovely protagonist.  
> Arthur is swooning already.


End file.
